I sat in Jack’s room this morning, my last minutes in the Kerouac House.

There on the bed, and then at the desk, I thought about my 2-and-a-half months here. Not about every minute, every breakthrough in writing, or friend made, or visits to the Essay Club, or my readings at Infusion or inside this house, or the workshop with MadAboutWords, or my final weeks of writing inspired by the Downtown Credo coffee shop, or my book manuscript. Instead, I thought about the energy in that room, how I wanted to bottle it, to wrap it up in a sealed plastic bag and put it on ice to thaw whenever I need it.
I left behind my Zen bracelet I once wore, wrapping it around the small Buddha shrine in Jack’s room. I wanted to leave something behind, more than just the memory of a writer who once worked here.
My last week was a good one despite the AC dying at the house on the next to last day. But somehow it was fitting. When Jack lived here, there was no air conditioning, so he wrote at night when it was cool, his keys echoing out the open window and bouncing off the trees and homes on this usually quiet street. Neighbors said they could hear the furious typing until dawn.
To all those who supported me – thank you. To all the writers before me – thank you. To the writer’s to come – savor the work, and breath every bit of the omnipresent energy. I promise I left a little behind.

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